Were it not better done -- the time being Spring -- Grim poet, the iron of whose Cromwellian lyre Is sistered with so soft a lyric string, To cast dry wisdom crackling on the fire, To follow the green pathways of desire, Where April flutters like a flying maid -- Though others to the topmost stars aspire -- To sport with Amaryllis in the shade? To rule wouldst thou? -- to be the sorry king Of this poor kingdom of the fool and liar We call the world; or, a still stranger thing, Wouldst swink and sweat, and house thee in the mire, And sell thy strong soul for a captive's hire, While tyrants eat, and hear sweet music played? Were it not better done -- what need inquire? -- To sport with Amaryllis in the shade? While all is still new blossom and young wing, And life's a flame still mounting higher and higher, While still Youth's gold is thine to flaunt and fling, Heed not dim counsels of some shrivelled sire; Spake he but sooth, upon the funeral pyre One dream shall linger as his ashes fade -- Of Love's plumed feet aflame through brake and brier, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. ENVOI My Prince, what better dream should man require To close his eyes? And I have heard it said That Death's a garden where we but retire -- "To sport with Amaryllis in the shade." |